


Fish

by godofwine



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-24
Updated: 2010-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-14 01:33:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godofwine/pseuds/godofwine





	Fish

*

"Come on Viggo, it's not right," Orlando whispers against his lips, pressing up. Viggo hears, quite clearly, but _not right_ is entirely different from _don't want to_ , bordering on _shouldn't_ perhaps, which Orlando had said, with a grin, before jumping off a bridge.

Viggo had not been there, but he had heard later and imagined the excitement (chaos) in Orlando's eyes when he watched Orlando as Legolas the next day.

Orlando's eyes are clear now, open. Waiting.

Blinks for a nanosecond (decade), relaxes. Lets resistance ebb away, and Viggo is fighting nothing really, only shadows.

Slides his hand up the length of Orlando's cock through the denim, push stroke.

Viggo watches as he shudders with something like surrender.

*

Orlando had been dancing of course.

Shining glitter at dusk in an isolated park with the quicksilver grace (slide of hips, glide of hand) that belonged to the beat of the trendy club they had abandoned.

Viggo had been laughing when Orlando pulled him up, none too steadily for they were both a bit drunk, pulled Viggo against his too warm skin and dangerous sway.

It could easily have been some other guy (girl), younger surely, too tight jeans, neon lights. But when they would reach too far, eventually, Orlando would push back, away. "I've got a girlfriend," he would say, and mean it.

He could hold Kate in the morning, whisper "I love you" and look her in the eye, guilt-free.

But in the depth of the night, he would dance and flow and shimmer in a perfection of his creation. Sure steps, not meant to tease, but the ready charm would draw them in to him despite innocent motivations, and he would circle around their careful, desperate nets, avoiding snares.

He would kiss them goodbye, gentleman-like (for their benefit, not his), and they would pout back, invite him over, slip easy fingers into pockets leaving mementos of fleeting connections that he would never read.

Viggo imagines he burns them afterwards.

*

"OK," Orlando says though it's his eyes that Viggo sees, and he suddenly remembers them back in New Zealand, running to the river to see the moon.

He had been ready to wade in, but the others had shook their heads and laughed. He had laughed with them because it didn't matter; it was Orlando he was asking.

Orlando who had said, in a quiet whine that managed to sound elegant still ( _because of the accent_ , Viggo thinks), "It's too _cold_!" and "Fuck off!"

Viggo had held out his hand, foot inching towards the water, and asked "Do you trust me?"

"You're crazy, fucked up, out of your mind."

"Do you trust me?" he had said again.

Orlando had looked at him then, sled his eyes right through him, and there had been a wildness there that flirted through. Excitement in stepping across perfectly necessary boundaries (defeat).

Orlando had taken his hand and said "OK," quite seriously, before they were splashing in, and the coldness of the water had contrasted so beautifully with the warmth of Orlando's skin.

Thinking back, Viggo had known the proper hook even then.

*

Orlando has scars that span his body, like a timeline of a too quick life.

Orlando would disagree. "I don't actively seek out trouble," he would say.

"But it finds you anyway," Viggo would reply.

Viggo would think that they are beautiful. Ask for stories as he traces his index finger across barely remembered lines. _I'm mapping out a country, a new continent._ Orlando would look at him with lazy eyes and remain still, and Viggo would be glad that Orlando is not ticklish in the least.

"You are too young for this," he would say when he has made his way to Orlando's toes. "As a friend, I'm suppose to tell you -"

"Have you ever read Hemmingway?" Orlando would ask.

"Yeah, I've read a bit of -"

Touches the base of a heel, then, "Oh. Hemmingway, yeah. Is that how you see it then?"

"Not exactly. But it's a good philosophy, no?"

Viggo would murmur something abstract, but think _suicide_ and _gun_ though he would not say it out loud.

Orlando would look at him then and only blink in response.

Viggo would smile back though it would not reach his eyes.

*

Orlando has taken off his jacket too quickly, and the contents spill out of secret hideaways. Clash of keys, thud of dull plastic hitting the floor.

But more noticeably, slips of paper, some quite old, tangled together out of careless pockets. Sometimes, the handwriting is smudged so much that the characters are no longer recognizable, only an imitation of language.

Seduction in little girl curls (with hearts that dot the i's), in sweeping majestic script, in clear, square-like print. Temptation in phone numbers, addresses, poetry, declarations of love.

They are lost chances.

They are trophies of triumph (of will).

The dim light of the tableside lamp shines rainbows off Orlando's rings.

Orlando's heartbeat is fragile against his lips. Viggo says, "You can trust me." He kisses Orlando lightly, on the nose, across his eyelids.

And lets him go.

*


End file.
